


Greedy

by meatandpotatoes (metaandpotatoes)



Series: Greedy [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Breastfeeding, Cheating, Cunnilingus, Domestic, Knotting, Lactation, M/M, Osamu is a wannabe DILF, Other, but not like melodramatic cheating? idk, forgive me god for i have done something great, it's me i try to be thoughtful, osamu talks himself up to a newborn infant, pregnancy is discussed, sorry bokuto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24678367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metaandpotatoes/pseuds/meatandpotatoes
Summary: Osamu’s always been greedy, but at thirty, even he’s learned that sometimes you can only have one thing: A booming business, a family, world-class volleyball skills. So what if Osamu has to make his fancy Tokyo dinner reservations for one or think strategically about when he opens a bottle of wine in case he downs the whole thing himself? Life is good, and for him, good is enough.Or it would be, if some people didn’t get the pick of the litter for no apparent reason
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu
Series: Greedy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017453
Comments: 24
Kudos: 121





	Greedy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notallballs (notallbees)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notallbees/gifts).



> 🥛🥛🥛

Osamu’s always been greedy, but at thirty, even he’s learned that sometimes you can only have one thing: A booming business, a family, world-class volleyball skills. Now that he’s grown, he finally knows how to appreciate the simple things—even prefer them. He likes rice and miso in the morning, cold tea in the summer and hot in the winter, his oma’s torisoboro on a bad day. And even if he wasn’t happy, he’s got the feeling that not much’ll change from here on out. He’s had the same best friend since high school, for one, has been going to the same cluster of izakayas and yakitori joints most every Tuesday with him since god knows when. Inevitably, he and Suna swap stories, watch volleyball games, and go over the happenings of the week. Suna’ll be dating someone sometimes, sure, or Osamu’ll have had a one night stand, but sooner or later they return to the norm, Suna wrapped up in the sordid details of Sumu’s dating life, Osamu badgering Kita to finally propose to the total catch they’ve been dating too long, both of them spending too much time coaching (Suna) and planning the next week’s menu (Osamu). Not that normal is bad. So what if Osamu has to make his fancy Tokyo dinner reservations for one or think strategically about when he opens a bottle of wine in case he downs the whole thing himself? Life is good, and for him, good is enough.

Or it would be, if some people didn’t get the pick of the litter for no apparent reason—at least, that’s what Osamu thinks as he stands in front of the door of one Akaashi Keiji, which also happens to be the door of one Bokuto Koutarou, blessedly absent. A hastily written sign is taped over the bell underneath the nameplates: PLEASE KNOCK. BABY SLEEPING. Osamu sets the bag of hand-me-downs down and gathers himself—his nerves, his tongue, his four-year-long crush on a person who has, from what he understands, been taken since before Osamu even knew what taken was, or at least that it could be anything other than what happened to that girl in that terrifying movie he accidentally watched over his parents shoulders after bed that one night—before knocking quietly—

—only to be met by nothing. Osamu tries again, louder, and this time, thank god, he hears the shuffle of feet over wooden floors.

“Who is it?” someone—definitely Keiji—asks. “The camera’s broken.”

“S’me,” Osamu says dumbly. He resists the urge to smack himself in the face. “S’Miya Osamu.”

“Osamu,” is all Keiji says when they open the door. They're wearing a shirt emblazoned with some kind of character and gym shorts that are almost certainly on backward, and their hair’s a mess—the longest Osamu’s ever seen it, too. All in all, the look is a far cry from Keiji’s usual writerly posh, but they’re still elegant, aloof. Unobtainable, in short. In the silence that stretches, Keiji seems lost, leaning out of the doorway and squinting up at Osamu as if they’ve forgotten exactly what they’re meant to be doing. Osamu can see the moment Keiji course corrects: Their shoulders go tight, and they pull back, masking their bewilderment into politeness. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Sumu told me to bring by some of the baby stuff our oma finally wanted to get outta the closet,” Osamu says, toeing the bag at his feet by way of explanation. He lifts up the bag clutched in his other hand, emblazoned with his store’s logo and filled with onigiri, and holds it out. “I thought I’d do him one better an’ bring you some grub, since you’re alone for the week. But I’m suspectin’ that ass didn’t tell you I was comin’, did he?”

“It’s not a problem, really,” Keiji says as they take the bag. “Come in, please, but ignore the...well, the chaos. If you could put the other bag in the tatami room—” Keiji gestures down the hall. “—I’ll, um. I’ll take these to the kitchen. Just be quiet, please; Hana’s sleeping in there.”

Keiji shuffles into the apartment while Osamu schucks off his shoes and tries to find a place for them amidst the ones already piled by the step. The apartment is about as he remembers it, from the times he’s been over to deliver food for housewarming and the baby shower, but it’s also decidedly messier: There’s a stack of mail cluttering the genkan along with the shoes, and a line of diapers blocks half the front hall, an owl-shaped bag of tissue paper tipped over behind them. The smell’s different, too, more Keiji than Bokuto, but also joined by a third—the baby’s, Osamu assumes. He’s heard they smell sweet like this the first few months, when they’re fresh and new. Not that he’s been going out of his way to research that kinda stuff or anything. Why would he do that?

While Keiji gets to unpacking the onigiri, Osamu opens the door to the tatami room as carefully as he can, grateful when the hinges don’t make a sound. The room has been converted into an office-nursery hybrid, the sliding doors firmly closed off from the living space. There’s a stack of what must be manuscripts on the low table, next to an open computer and Keiji’s glasses and a pile of hastily folded tenugui, as if Keiji was attempting to do work and laundry at the same time but failing splendidly at both. Between the desk and the crib, there’s a futon crowned with a tangle of sheets. It’s the sparsest nest Osamu’s ever seen, so sparse that he wonders if it can really be called anything other than a bed. From what Osamu’s read, it should be full of things from both oma and ama, should be where they alternate spending time through the first months of life, scenting and soothing, sleeping all together. From the door, though, Osamu sees only a baby blanket folded in among the sheets. He doesn’t smell much, either; even here, Keiji’s sharp smell—dry, vegetal, and maybe a little smokier after the baby—is overpowered by the newborn’s sweetness.

When Osamu walks into the kitchen, Keiji’s standing at the counter over the open bag of onigiri; two’re already gone, and the last is half-eaten in their hands. Keiji sticks the half in their mouth right before they notice Osamu has returned. Luckily, Keiji doesn’t choke from surprise.

“I’ll take that as a sign y’still enjoy em,” Osamu laughs. He leans against the counter on the other side of the sink and smiles as Keiji chews and swallows, then presses the rice stuck to their fingers into their mouth, thorough as always. Osamu diverts his eyes. The table’s super interesting, after all—covered in unopened boxes and baby bottle tops and cards and other...well, baby stuff, he guesses. The clutter must be driving Keiji nuts.

“I haven’t eaten all day,” Keiji says once they’re done, though they still have rice stuck to their cheek. It’s cute, and Osamu hates it. “I hope you weren’t planning on having one.”

Osamu laughs. “That makes me feel better ‘bout showin’ up unannounced.” 

Only when Keiji wipes their hands on their shirt does Osamu notice the dark patch on the front. He grabs the paper towels on the counter, holds them out. “Y’spill somethin’?” 

“What? Oh—” Keiji follows the gesture to the dark spot, and only then does Osamu realize what’s happening—childbirth and all. “No—I’m sorry, how embarrassing. Let me—”

Keiji turns, looking for something, but even Osamu can tell they don’t know what. He reaches out and taps Keiji’s shoulder with the back of his fingers. That gets their attention, at least: They turn, but their hands are still lodged in the hem of their t-shirt, waving the fabric in an attempt to magically dry it.

“Hey, no need t’be embarrassed, seriously,” Osamu says. That gets Keiji stop fanning, at least. “S’just natural, an’ all. It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“Not yet,” Keiji replies, and if it was anyone else, Osamu would think that was the end of it. Keiji, though, has always taken a while to gather their thoughts, especially when forced to improvise. “For now it’s just...uncomfortable. The pump broke, and it’s been too hot to go outside.”

“Y’want me t’go get one? Protégé’s mannin’ the shop today, so I don’t got anywhere to be. Y’shouldn’t have to put up with that til Bo’s back from...whatever the team is doin.”

“You know,” Keiji says. They absently thumb at the rice on their cheek, then suck it off in contemplation, and fuck, that’s not fair. Osamu bites his cheek and waits.

”You know,” Keiji says again, a smile tugging at their lips. They laugh, but it’s too soft—not their usual bright staccato. “You know, you really already have everything you need to...” And there they go again, leaving thoughts unfinished. Keiji just shakes their head like they’ve caught themselves dozing. They must be nervous, if they’re twisting their hands so fiercely; Osamu’s seen that before, during close sets and too-late nights out with his brother’s and Bokuto’s team. Still, here the tic only serves to pique his interest.

“Everything I need to...?” he tries. 

“Ignore me," Keiji decides. "I’m being ridiculous. It must be the summer heat—the lack of sleep—and I haven’t been outside in days—”

“C’mon, lemme in on the secret,” Osamu teases, if only to pull Keiji out of a spiral. He takes a step forward, and suddenly the kitchen feels as small as it is; even Keiji’s blush darkens. Still, he flicks Keiji’s arm playfully, an attempt to offset the sudden claustrophobia. “I’m sure it’s not so bad.”

“You can't laugh at me,” Keiji insists.

“Have I ever?” And Keiji can’t say anything to that, because as far as Osamu’s concerned, he’d die before he laughed at Keiji’s expense. Even the time Keiji set a ball straight into Atsumu’s subpar stupid smug face at a team picnic, Osamu’d held his tongue, just grabbed the ball and tossed it again, yelled for Keiji to try him, this time, ‘cos at least he could hit an easy ball. If he remembers correctly, he scored that point damn well.

“Well, you could, if you want...you know...” Keiji tries. Osamu moves his still-outstretched hand down to brush Keiji’s elbow, holding back a smile. He would never admit it, but it’s fun to watch Keiji fumble so clearly when their thoughts are still inscrutable. It’s what Osamu likes about them: They’re easy to read, but not at all. They still need to be figured out, eased into, learned. Finally, Keiji manages: “Instead of the pump.”

And oh, that fragment certainly gets Osamu’s brain going. Definitely only his brain though. 

“Instead of the pump, I could...” Osamu repeats. He tries to keep any hopeful lilt from his voice, tries to stay dead serious. This is a make-or-break moment. All hands on deck. Best behavior. An executive decision from his better judgement tells him to add: “Keiji, I just need you t’ask for whatever it is so I know what you want.”

“Youcouldsuckmeoffbutnotmydick,” Keiji bursts. They immediately press their face into their hands and turn into the counter, giving Osamu at least a little more privacy to fight to contain himself.

“Don’t hide,” Osamu says. He reaches out for the last time to brush his knuckles across Keiji’s arm. If his hand is shaking, he'll damn sure never admit it. At least the gesture gets Keiji to drop their hands and look warily his way. “Who d’you think you’re talking to? Ain’t ever said no to a home cooked meal.”

“You don’t think the request is…” Keiji’s lips purse and their eyes flick decidedly down. “...strange?”

“Why would I think somethin’ like that? Might not be yours, but I’m still a growing boy, y’know.”

Keiji frowns. “If that’s how you’re going to be the whole time...” 

“No, no, no, I’ll be on my best behavior from here out, cross my heart an’—”

But Osamu knows he’s been had when Keiji scoffs behind their hand. “You’re pouting,” is all they say before pushing past Osamu and down the hall.

Osamu follows Keiji into the bedroom, but stops short in the doorway. Unlike the living area and baby’s room, the bedroom is almost devoid of scent—Bokuto’s sun-baked brine is nowhere to be found, and Keiji’s only barely. It’s strange—institutional, even.

“It’s easier to clean when it’s just me,” Keiji says when they notice Osamu hesitating, but even Osamu knows it takes more than cleaning to get a room this fresh. Still, he can’t say the idea of mussing this blank canvas up with the fact of himself is unappealing, even if only for a completely, totally, one-hundred-percent platonic nursing session. 

“Y’sure you’re okay with this?”

“I’m the one who asked,” Keiji huffs. They shuck off their shirt, impatient and, Osamu thinks, regal. While they’re not wearing a bra—don’t need to, really, given how little their chest has swollen—they are wearing a stomach binder. Osamu wonders if it’s uncomfortable as Keiji props themselves up against the head of the bed. “Be gentle, and don’t bite. It really doesn’t take much.”

“Your wish is my command. How should I…” Osamu gestures at the bed.

“Sit however you want.”

Alright then. Osamu crawls onto the bed from the bottom up, draping himself on his side beside Keiji, head propped up on his fist. He moves his other hand toward Keiji’s face, unsure whether he’s allowed to touch like this. Keiji nods, though, and Osamu lets his finger run down a high cheek, then loop behind Keiji’s neck to pull them down. 

“Can I kiss you here, first?” Osamu asks, rubbing his thumb over the slope of a shoulder. “I know it’s not—”

Keiji pauses, pulls back to look at Osamu like they’re waiting for him to take off a mask. Osamu knows he’s dumb and totally shitty, because all he can hear is his heart in his ears. “It’s fine,” Keiji finally says.

Osamu doesn’t need to be told twice. He licks down the line of Keiji’s collarbone, swirling and suckling in an attempt to offer a preview of what’s to come, though really, he has no idea what the fuck technique should be involved. At least he gets a warmup. He lets his hands wander as he moves slowly down, walking his fingers up the hidden steps of Keiji’s ribs until he can ghost over the edge of a breast. No matter how subtly, Keiji’s chest is definitely swollen, not quite soft but somehow delicate. 

Once Osamu reaches Keiji’s chest, he licks diagonal stripes across the plane of one breast, passing over the soft nipple only briefly before shifting to do the same to the other. At some point, Keiji tugs him up, returning to seated so Osamu can drape himself over their lap and get back to work painting whorls and curves over as much of Keiji’s skin as he can until he finally, finally feels the tension leave Keiji’s abs. 

When Osamu finally closes his lips around Keiji’s breast, his moan is loud enough to rival the sound of Keiji’s relief. It’s strange how instinctual this is. Without thinking, he raises a hand to massage the skin, then presses his tongue full against the nipple, now stiff and easy to find. His first suck is shy, for fear of hurting, but then Keiji’s hand tightens in his hair and Keiji trembles like they might burst at any moment, so Osamu grows greedier, bolder: He tongues the nipple and sucks, careful to keep his teeth tucked behind his lips as much as he can. 

“Yes, there you go,” Keiji hisses, just as the first trickle of liquid hits Osamu’s tongue. It’s thick and warm and slightly sweet; not at all what Osamu expected, though he couldn’t really have made an educated prediction. It explains the newborn smell, at least. He lets a mouthful rest on his tongue before swallowing, never one to back down from giving something new a proper tasting, and then he sucks again, pressing his nose as close as he can to Keiji’s skin. The breathy sound that Keiji lets free will fuel Osamu’s fantasies for weeks. 

“That’s it,” Keiji coos when Osamu finally sets a rhythm—a pull followed by a burst of small suckles. As Osamu tries to devour them, Osamu can feel Keiji collapsing into themselves, their knees rising to press around Osamu, their arms cradling his head like something precious, their body rocking gently. The moment is more tender than anything, and while Osamu is no doubt half hard and trying desperately not to grind against air, the edge of rush and want that usually comes along with arousal is absent, replaced by deliberateness and calm. He laves and nuzzles, running his nose through the wet on the tip of Keiji’s nipple to catch his breath before latching on again and sucking in time with the stroke of Keiji’s fingers through his hair. 

Of course, the liquid thins out over time, and Osamu knows it’ll run dry, sooner or later—really, he’s assuming sooner, given Keiji’s petitness. After one final suck, Osamu finally cracks open his eyes to find he’s staring straight up into the desperate bliss that has captured Keiji’s face: their pinched eyebrows, arching ever so slightly upward, and the soft O of their lips, which purse into a line once Osamu retreats. 

“Sure it’s okay for me to be hoggin’ this?” Osamu asks. He wipes the back of his mouth with his hand, notices the way Keiji’s eyes fix on his lips when he licks them.

“It would go to waste if you didn’t,” Keiji finally replies. The bitterness in their voice takes Osamu off guard, and it must show, because Keiji adds, in the same tone: “Hana still isn’t latching.” 

Osamu’s not sure what to say to that, so he reaches out instead, cupping Keiji’s cheek in his hand. Keiji’s eyes are welling, but their expression is angry. Still, they don’t move away.

“I feel like a failure,” Keiji finally says. They clasp a hand around Osamu’s wrist and turn to press their lips into Osamu’s palm. “He keeps saying—over and over: It’ll be fine, Keiji! You’re worrying too much, Keiji! You’ll get it! Any good oma does!” Keiji pulls away. “And since I am going to be the very best oma there ever was in the history of humanity—” 

“S’what Bo said?” Keiji nods, and Osamu sighs, running a hand over his face. “Don’ pay any mind to that stupid stuff he’s spoutin’. You’re already the best oma ever, even if the kiddo doesn’t appreciate…” Osamu gestures at Keiji, feeling suddenly useless and alone. He has no place in this discussion, he knows—has no defense against whatever Keiji lives every day, what Keiji tells themselves, what Keiji’s told by others—but he can’t help himself. 

“You’re doing the best y’can, y’know?” he tries, punctuating the sentiment with a rub of his thumb over Keiji’s knee. 

Then Keiji smiles, small and tired, and threads a hand back through Osamu’s hair, and the fact of the moment hits Osamu like a brick spiked by a particularly nasty southpaw. He feels stupid, really, for thinking he was useless just seconds ago. An idiot, like always, getting caught up on everything he can’t have instead of appreciating what he does. Osamu lets himself move forward, unsure if by his own accord or guided by the hand in his hair, until his lips hover a breath’s width away from Keiji’s. He tries not to let himself hope as Keiji’s eyes flick down, discerning and reserved, but when he pulls back, Keiji follows, faster, until he presses up against Osamu, his tongue darting out immediately to press between Osamu’s lips. Osamu thanks god he’s thirty and not thirteen, because without autopilot telling him to open on up, he would’ve frozen like a fucking idiot on first contact. He recovers quick enough to press his tongue back into Keiji’s before things get too awkward, and phew, Keiji’s groan is a relief.

“I believe you have something to finish,” Keiji says once they part. Back to prim and proper, like they aren’t shirtless in bed making out with someone who’s definitely not their mate. Details. Osamu raises his eyebrows.

“Baby gonna be okay?”

“She’ll be fine. She’s been sleeping a few hours at a time now. Besides, I’ll hear her if she needs me.”

Osamu nods, then tugs at the hem of his own shirt, suddenly aware of how hot it is in the room.

“Then is it okay if I…”

Keiji answers by pushing their hands up Osamu’s shirt and lifting it over his head. Once Osamu’s torso is bare, he lets Keiji’s eyes and fingers wander, fighting down the self consciousness as Keiji drags their hand over the decidedly unsculpted plane of Osamu’s abs, over his own chest, also going soft, and finally his arms, which still boast definition thanks to hauling rice from truck to shop. Then, Keiji’s hands drop again, pinching at what Osamu has decided not to acknowledge is the start of a belly.

“I work out, but it’s been a minute since the volleyball days,” Osamu laughs. “And then there’s the beer...”

“I like it,” Keiji says. “It gets nettlesome, comparing myself to—” The way Keiji won’t say Bokuto’s name sparks something mad in Osamu’s gut. Something like hope and hunger. 

He tamps down the feeling and opts instead to move more firmly into Keiji’s space. Who’s he to argue when Keiji takes that as a cue to kiss him again? “Trust me, I get it,” Osamu says after. “S’why I never go to the sento with Sumu anymore, that peacockin’ ass.”

Keiji smiles again, bigger. The expression stays longer, too, and Osamu dares—

“Hey,” he says. He grabs Keiji’s hand and presses his mouth to the back, the side, the palm, closes his eyes and tries to imagine the words he wants to say, letter by letter. Why does he suddenly feel shy? “Can I make you feel good, proper? Like you deserve?”

“I—" Keiji begins. But the syllable is followed by the withdrawal of Keiji's hand. Osamu dares a glance, certain he will be kicked out. Certain he has crossed some invisible, jagged line. In front of him, Keiji is looking away, at the pile of laundry by the bed, maybe, or the half-empty suitcase blocking the closet door. Keiji twists their hands in their lap, the fingers threaded through each other in an impossible knot. "I would like that.”

Osamu releases the breath he'd been ohlding as quietly as he can, focused now on reaching and untangling Keiji's long fingers one by one. The action brings Keiji's attention back to him, at least. “What’re you ready for?" he asks, more earnest than he can ever remember being. "I mean—I’d love t’eat y’out, of course. Gotta have a balanced meal an’ all.”

“Is that all I am to you?” Keiji demands. But the spark is back in their eyes, good natured and cunning.

“A snack? I mean, have y’looked in the mirror?”

Keiji’s the one who leans into Osamu’s space this time, up on their knees so they’re looking right down into Osamu’s eyes. The look on their face must be an attempt at haughty, and shit, is it successful. “Then what are you waiting for? I thought you were always hungry.”

“Oh, Keiji’s got jokes, eh? Careful what y’wish for.”

Osamu doesn’t bother with the warm up this time. He hauls Keiji toward of him and mouths at their other nipple once Keiji wraps their legs around his waist, getting the same sweet sound from before as he latches down. Osamu’s stomach burns when it becomes clear that Keiji doesn’t plan to keep this session so chaste—their hands move from Osamu’s hair to his back, fingertips dipping beneath the elastic of Osamu’s briefs before dragging up to thumb at Osamu’s own nipples. That gives Osamu the grand idea to bring his freehand up to Keiji’s other breast, and he moans into his meal at the dribble of liquid that falls over his fingers. He doesn’t let up on his nursing, though, wouldn’t even if Bokuto himself burst in—the rhythm of this act is too overwhelming. He loses himself in the steady lullaby of his suckling, punctuated from time to time by Keiji’s sighs, by the run of their hands up Osamu’s sides. Eventually, Keiji settles a hand under Osamu’s chin, massaging the last spurts of warmth into Osamu’s mouth, and Osamu only pulls away when he feels a thumb sneak in between his lips, then press into his tongue. Osamu gives the digit a suck, just to be petulant.

“You’re spoiling me, y’know,” he grins. “Could keep me here forever, breakfast, lunch, an’ dinner.”

Keiji moves back against the headboard, but Osamu follows their eyes as he sucks at his own milk-wet fingers, making sure to stretch out his tongue into full view while he licks each and every one clean. When he’s done, he slides forward and cups Keiji’s cunt as gently as he can.

“Osamu,” Keiji says, newly insistent.

“Y’want me down here?”

“Need you,” Keiji corrects, and fuck if Osamu doesn’t start mouthing his way down Keiji’s binder right then; he doesn't care if fabric is tasteless and rough. He gets Keiji’s shorts off as quickly as he can, laughing when he sees that they are, in fact, on backward, then lays Keiji down, admiring them from the foot of the bed before he starts his way up to where Keiji wants him, tonguing the outside of Keiji’s knee, licking up the inside of a strong thigh gone soft from recent disuse. Finally, he mouths over Keiji’s mound and hums, long enough to make sure Keiji feels the sound.

“Wanna taste you so bad,” he mumbles into the fabric, nuzzling and rubbing.

“Then do it.”

Osamu ignores them. Instead, he mouths Keiji through the fabric again and takes Keiji’s ass in his hands, lifts them up to slide one of the extra pillows under their back. Despite the better access, he goes back to licking, now focusing on the juncture at the top of Keiji’s thigh, which he reaches by pulling their briefs ever so slightly down. When Osamu switches from the flat of his tongue to the tip, Keiji shivers and huffs. Even from where he is, Osamu doesn’t miss the smile pulling at their lips. He rewards himself (and Keiji, too) by tracing the tip of his index finger over the outline of Keiji’s cunt.

“Bet you’d like me to treat your dick just like your tits,” Osamu teases.

“Just—fuck, please, do it,” Keiji demands. This time, they push down on Osamu’s head and raise their knees up to lock Osamu right where they want him. He licks, right up the column of Keiji’s underwear, then licks again, again, not stopping even as he brings his hands up to the band of Keiji’s briefs. Only when he pulls Keiji’s briefs down does Osamu relent, and this time, it’s because he wants to admire.

Keiji’s wet enough that Osamu can dip his fingers and spread their slick across the rest of them until their entire cunt is shiny with it. He pushes open their lips to expose the stiff jut of their dick, as large as Osamu’s pinky nail, and takes in the sight of the full of them, from the curly thatch of hair to the dark folds falling around the wetness peeking out from Keiji’s center. With a solid lay of the land, Osamu gets back to the important stuff: He drags the flat of his tongue up the periphery of Keiji’s vulva, breathing in Keiji’s tangy scent, which is stronger and sharper here, then again, just over the outer lips, and then he does the same to the opposite side, waiting until he feels Keiji’s knees relax away from his head to swirl his tongue straight into Keiji’s center before swiping the full width over their clit. Keiji tastes bitter and sour and real, heavy with sweat and arousal, and Osamu buries himself in it, pressing his mouth over as much as he can.

“Finally,” Keiji whines. Their feet plant into the bed then, lifting their hips so Osamu has even better access. He dives straight back in, rubbing his tongue into Keiji’s slit. And just as Keiji’s breath crests into a moan, he drags his tongue up the length of them and off—of course, Keiji tries to follow, but Osamu wraps his arms around Keiji’s thighs and presses them back down. 

“Hey now, y’can’t rush perfection,” he scolds. Keiji looks down at him, flustered, but a smile tugs at their lips. Osamu sticks his tongue out and dips it into Keiji’s slit without looking away. “Y’taste fucking amazing. Smell it, too.”

And now, Osamu gets serious. He shifts Keiji’s legs until one is over his shoulder, freeing up his hand to pinch around the hood of Keiji’s dick. Then he licks, again and again, from slit to clit, each stroke only slightly shorter than the last, but each accompanied by a louder breath from above, and fuck if that doesn’t do something for his ego. When he’s just about to lick only Keiji’s dick, he starts over again, this time from an angle, then again, from the opposite, listening until he finds the one that sends Keiji’s breath into moan, open and needy. With that angle in mind, he closes his lips around it and sucks, pressing his tongue full onto it to meet Keiji’s grind, then lets himself be used, lets himself enjoy the clench of Keiji’s hand in his hair and then rock of their clit against his tongue. Osamu opens his eyes so he can watch Keiji’s face pinch into pleasure and their mouth hang open in a moan when Osamu finally starts to rub his tongue over their dick, the same angle as before. 

“So, so, so,” Keiji tries. They devolve into a sigh, then seem to remember themselves enough to say: “Harder. Suck. Please, O—”

Osamu almost regrets following instructions too quickly for Keiji to manage his name, but then he gets Keiji to buck, hard enough that Osamu has to back off and rub his nose and chin through the slick sliding out of Keiji before latching back on. He focuses only on the rhythm, the stroke, massaging the skin above Keiji’s clit as he goes until Keiji calls for him to keep going, like that, just there, please—and that syllable eggs Osamu on, if only because even here it’s clipped and prim and Keiji, but obscene. After god knows how long, Keiji finally clenches their knees back around Osamu’s head, arches up and up, holding on to Osamu’s hair for dear life and heaving air out of what sounds like the deepest part of their being.

“Sa,” Keiji tries between breaths, but it’s way too late for words. Osamu just lets Keiji rock against his tongue, still moving the same as before, working them through the peak. He also becomes painfully aware of his own dick, straining in his pants against the edge of the bed.

“Stop, please,” Keiji finally says. Osamu pulls off with an indulgent suck. His face is covered in wet from the tip of his nose down, and he's more than happy to start cleaning up, only to be hauled in for a kiss before he can get it all. He supposes the waste is okay.

“Samu,” Keiji says when they part, only to dive back in and lick a broad stripe up Osamu’s cheek. Osamu laughs and shoves his tongue in Keiji’s mouth to get what is rightfully his. Keiji is relaxed and open in the cage of Osamu's elbows and knees. Osamu tries not to think of how this new position makes him feel: Young and giddy and desperate. 

“Stealin’,” he says. “What is it?”

“I just…can we…” Keiji’s fingers worry at Osamu’s arm.

“Keiji,” Osamu says. He tucks himself into Keiji's neck. “If y’want more, y’gotta tell me what you’re up for. And it’s fine if y’don’t want anything.”

“We—I haven’t tried since...” Keiji starts to say. They still haven’t caught their breath. Then: “I want you to...if you do, too...I would like you to fuck me.”

“I want that, too,” Osamu breathes without a moment's thought. “Y’sure you’ll be okay?” 

“Just go slow.”

“Y’gotta tell me the minute it feels less than great, okay? Don’t worry ‘bout me. And hey—y’got condoms?”

“How considerate,” Keiji laughs. “Somewhere in the nightstand, probably. It’s been a while.”

“Figure y’got your hands full as it is,” Osamu says. Once in possession of condoms, he pulls one over his finger and gets to work, tracing down the length of Keiji's body before diving experimentally in. Thankfully, the orgasm has got Keiji a little loose already and wet enough that Osamu has to go painfully slow to keep his finger from disappearing right up inside. He watches Keiji’s face for any sign of discomfort underneath their focus, only to see that concentration give way to a pleasure that stays on Keiji's face as Osamu makes one finger two, then three.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Keiji whines as Osamu goes to add a fourth. They shy away, then push their hand down Osamu’s shorts, trying, it seems, to both grab at his dick and get him naked as quickly as possible. Happy to oblige, Osamu scrambles to tug his shorts down without losing contact, though it’s hard to stay focused when Keiji cups his balls and presses their fingers straight up into his taint. “It feels—it feels amazing, but fuck, I need more than your fingers.”

“Okay, okay,” Osamu says. “Just—” he palms himself here, jerking when Keiji strokes a finger over sensitive skin. Where the fuck did he put the rest of the condoms? “—let me—”

Ah, Keiji’s got one, though that means they take their fingers off Osamu, which—well. Sacrifices must be made. He watches Keiji rip into the package and can’t help but laugh as Keiji fumbles to get it on. “You’re going to drive me absolutely mad.”

“Let me make it up to you,” Osamu jokes. “Get on your side?”

It takes a minute, but eventually he and Keiji get settled, Osamu’s front to Keiji’s back, the head of his very neglected, very hard cock pressing straight into where it most wants to be. Still, he takes it slow, rocking back and forth and refusing to let Keiji rush things, though he’d swear that’s only out of caution, not because the red of Keiji’s face as they get more and more frustrated is the most charming thing he’s seen for a while. He has to say, it’s something, hearing Keiji react to every centimeter of his dick, and also to feel every centimeter of Keiji stretching around him.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Osamu says into Keiji’s shoulder once he’s bottomed out. “Takin’ me so good. Feel ok?”

“Better than okay,” Keiji whines. “You feel good, too, but I need—I need you to move, damn it.”

It’s probably not what Keiji meant, but Osamu starts rocking, keeping himself as flush to Keiji as he can while still circling his hips. Even he can’t keep that up for long, though, and before he realizes it, he’s grinding in harder, pulling back further, encouraged by what might just be one long continuous moan from Keiji. 

“Gonna make you fall apart on my knot,” Osamu growls while he still can. “Wanna make you feel so good you’ll be dreamin’ about me for months. Y’want that?”

“Yes, fuck, Osamu—”

Osamu groans when Keiji grinds, insistent and maybe not exactly intentional. It feels good enough that he has to suck a breath in through his nose to keep calm against the desperate throb his dick gives in response. That is a very bad sign, especially if Keiji keeps doing that, so Osamu pulls up, trying to stay inside Keiji while pushing up against the headboard and spreading them out over his lap. He cups one hand around Keiji’s cunt while the other holds them firm.

“S’really not fair, you sayin’ my name like that,” Osamu groans. “Let me do all the work, okay? Just enjoy the ride.”

And Osamu can’t help but fuck Keiji after that, short deep thrusts that should, he hopes, hit Keiji somewhere sweet—he listens for confirmation, adjusts until he gets a surprised then gratified groan. Osamu only slows once he feels his knot pressing up against Keiji, and only so he can start to grind sweet circles up into them, careful not to stretch too fast or hard. The way Keiji moans every time Osamu presses forward is beautiful, all punched out and low and never-ending, like they can’t be bothered to think about anything but the feeling behind the sound. He focuses on that spot once he feels Keiji start to open up, small little thrusts, pushing his hand high enough up Keiji’s thighs that he can flick a finger back and forth over their clit. 

“Feel good?” Osamu asks, just because. He already knows the answer, but his pride still flares when Keijis nods and lies their head back on Osamu’s shoulder, boneless except for their grip around his wrist.

And with that, Osamu gets to calibrating, shifting forward and back, side to side, until he gets that moan again, longer this time and reedy. He’s always wondered what it feels like, being stretched out like this—what it hits to make an omega feel so good. Whatever it is, he focuses on making that sound happen over and over—short bursts of his hips, hard enough to get a reaction but shallow enough not to be a full out thrust. Before long, he’s got Keiji bouncing on his dick. When Osamu chances a look down the line of Keiji’s body, he’s not prepared to see the way Keiji’s breasts are leaking, the way Osamu’s own hand is shiny and wet with their slick.

“Fuck, yes, fuck, right there, keep—” Keiji says on a particularly deep grind. They jerk, sending Osamu’s knot further up, and it must be exactly where Keiji wants it, because they lean forward and seize, still grinding, then start babbling into nothing— “—right there, Osamu, right there—please, ‘Samu, please—fucking fuck, alpha—” 

And shit, Osamu’s not usually one for that kind of talk, but right now, that word sends lightning through every meter of his being. He hauls Keiji back toward him, suddenly angry at the distance he let between them. Once he can, he buries his face in Keiji’s neck and latches down on tender skin and keens like he hasn’t since first ruts, a high and desperate sound that’s totally out of his control. Through some grace of some god somewhere beyond his comprehension, he doesn’t immediately blow his load—somehow keeps fucking up into Keiji, keeps rubbing his fingers in desperate circles around Keiji’s clit until he slides even deeper in, his knot finally slipping into place. A few more grinds have Keiji tensing all around Osamu, have their fingers flying back to grip Osamu’s hair. Impossibly, Keiji manages to press Osamu even deeper into their neck as they sigh a deep long yes, their entire body sinking into relaxation.

When Osamu brings his fingers from Keiji’s clit to their mouth, he finds only openness, wetness; Keiji sucks the fingers in eagerly, biting down just hard enough to send stars flashing behind Osamu’s eyes, and fuck, he wants to come. While Keiji spasms and licks, Osamu grinds as gently as he can into that slick heat, chasing his own finish. What does Osamu in, though, isn’t only Keiji’s cunt: Just as he’s getting desperate, Keiji threads a hand through Osamu’s own and brings it down to rest on their stomach, and that is when Osamu breaks, fucking up and up until he’s emptying into the condom, body wrapped around Keiji as soft as he can manage. Shit, it’s been a while since he last came inside another person, even longer since he’s knotted. So long that he forgets the tremors that inevitably come as his cock gives its final spurts.

“You alright?” Keiji eventually asks. Osamu startles; he hadn’t realized he’d dozed off. 

“Yeah I always…well. The knot’ll go down fast,” Osamu mumbles. He still can’t bring himself to move his face out of Keiji’s neck. He thinks he might be crying. Keiji, at least, seems equally loath to move. “I did a number on your neck. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“No need to apologize,” Keiji manages. “It’s natural. Besides, it should heal soon enough.”

“Should I have been more careful with your stomach?”

“Oh—no. The band is just to help get muscle tone back. I won’t need it after this week.”

“Instant washboard abs, eh?”

“I wish. I can’t tell you how tired I am of not feeling like...” Osamu tenses. He really doesn’t want to hear the end of this.

“C’mon,” Osamu scolds. He takes this as an opportunity to move them down the bed, til they’re back where they started, at least the most recent time. “D’you know how sexy you are? How sexy you were? All big an’ round. Always looked like you were glowin’. And y’ate so many damn onigiri—“

Keiji laughs, thank fuck, and Osamu can’t help but laugh, too. He buries his smile in the nape of Keiji’s neck, inhales the smell of sweat and earth as deeply as he can. He wants to rub himself all over Keiji like a cat or a kid in love. 

“You’re gonna get me hooked on fillin’ you up,” he says on the exhale.

“If I recall correctly, I’m the one who did most of the filling today.” 

“S’true. Just means I owe you. How’s about I make up a punchcard? Every two stamps I get means y’get something from me.”

“And what, exactly, would the reward be?”

“Dinner, footrub, delivery service...whatever y’ask me for. Y’know, I’m pretty good at cleaning bathrooms, thanks to Kita.”

Keiji laughs again, though this time it sounds suspiciously close to a giggle, and at least this time Osamu can slip free enough to lean over and kiss the smile that accompanies the sound full on. 

Osamu has to pull back eventually. When he does, Keiji’s expression is steely; Osamu recognizes the look of observation, of removal. He waits. “What if,” Keiji eventually says, eyes glancing over Osamu’s face, “I want more of that?”

And damn if that doesn’t knock the wind straight out of Osamu’s lungs. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and then the look that comes over Keiji’s face (something like dejection or embarrassment, something unthinkable) sends him into a panic. 

“Anything,” he blurts. “Whatever y’ask.” And despite his nerves, he knows he has to add: “Y’know how I feel about you, don’t you?”

Keiji doesn’t look away when they reply. “Of course I do.”

Is that a relief? Osamu can’t decide. It certainly feels like one, though, at least a little. He doesn’t have to hide. Probably wasn’t hiding much to begin with. He dips his head down, but not quite far enough to kiss. Now’s not the time for that, not yet.

“I guess I always thought,” he tries. “I had my day in volleyball. And then I got a successful business, good reviews, regular customers—I thought...” The time for even the illusion of a kiss, Osamu knows, has long past, so he drops back down to his shoulder. Keiji, though, is quick to follow, their eyes seeking out Osamu’s. “When we met up in Sendai,” Osamu continues, “you already had this...this whole life. These past few years, I thought seein’ you happy with Bo, and now, seein’ you with the kiddo...that’d be enough. For once, I didn’t let myself be greedy, but...well. I guess that ain’t workin’ out so well.”

“It all happened so quickly,” Keiji says, quicker than Osamu thought they’d reply. And they look like they want to say more, but before they can, a thin cry cuts through the apartment. 

“Probably hungry,” Keiji sighs. They shift away from Osamu to sit up. Now, out of the heat of the moment, Osamu can’t ignore the dark circles under Keiji’s eyes and the slump of their shoulders. Keiji suddenly looks like what he is—like someone who just recently had a kid, like someone who hasn’t been sleeping. Like someone taking on the world alone.

Osamu sits up and catches Keiji’s wrist before they can move to get out of bed, grip firm enough to keep Keiji still. “I’ll take care of ‘er,” he says. “Y’need t’get some sleep.” Before Keiji can protest, Osamu pulls again, as gently as he can, and tries to keep from sounding desperate when he says, “Let me help.”

At last, Keiji lets Osamu pull them down. They fold around Osamu, who can’t help but pet down sweaty hair and run his thumb around the shell of Keiji’s ear. Osamu wonders when Keiji last got a chance to shower, mentally logs it on the to do list for after Keiji wakes up.

“Give her a few gas drops before the bottle,” Keiji says when Osamu toes out of bed. He roots around the clothes on the floor, slips on his discarded briefs. “And burp her every few ounces. Otherwise she eats too fast after a nap.”

“Got it, oma. Anything else I need to know?”

“She likes the nest,” Keiji mumbles, eyes already drifting. “Thanks.”

He hesitates, but Osamu is glad he decides to lean down and press his lips against Keiji’s cheek. He’s even gladder when Keiji turns and meets him head on. 

When he pushes open the door of the nursery, the air is decidedly less sweet than before. Hana’s squirming in her swaddle, seemingly caught between crying and an endless series of yawns. Maybe, Osamu entertains, she hasn’t quite mastered the latter yet. In due time.

“Someone’s been busy,” he laughs when he confirms what the smell in the room has already told him. The tokonoma, luckily, has been turned into a makeshift changing area, which would send his granny for a loop, but she’s not here to care, thank god. And even if she was, she’d definitely be barking up another tree. At least, he argues to the granny in his head as he lays Hana down, he’s been reading enough baby blogs to know how to take off and put on a diaper. Not that he really needed to know in the first place. He babbles as he works, counting fingers and toes, letting his own finger get latched onto as he turns to find the wipes.

He peeks into the bedroom before making his way to the kitchen. Sure enough, Keiji is fast asleep, arm arched loosely around their now-bare stomach. Their chest, at least, looks decidedly flatter and the line of their mouth more relaxed than before. On top of that, the room no longer smells bare: Osamu’s gut twists in guilty satisfaction as he catches his own not-quite-pleasant musk underneath Keiji’s herbal bite, then again when he catches sight of his shirt peeking out from under Keiji’s arm. He grabs his phone and turns on the fan in the corner before he goes, tugging the door closed as gently as he can manage.

“Where d’you reckon your gas drops live?” he asks Hana as he stares at the counters. Luckily, the answer is in the fridge, next to a bottle of milk clearly labeled HANA ONLY DO NOT DRINK KOUTAROU in the same handwriting from the door. Once he’s got the drops down Hana’s mouth, Osamu takes the bottle out, and turns on the tap, and waits, running his finger through the stream until the temperature’s right for him to stick the bottle in and turn, bouncing Hana on his shoulder as he goes. 

“Y’think there’s an easier way to do this?” he asks her. If she knows, she doesn’t say, the sly bastard. No matter, the milk gets to the temperature it needs to be, judging by the way it feels on Osamu’s wrist.

Osamu strokes a smooth, perfect cheek, slides the bottle in place when Hana turns and opens wide. That instinct will be gone soon, replaced by habit and intention. Even after just two months, she’s changed: Her grip around his finger is strong and sure, when before it was barely there at all. Her green cat eyes never leave his face as she sucks down the bottle, like she’s trying to absorb every detail of the world along with her meal.

“Lookit you, already gettin’ big an’ strong,” he says, tugging at the bottle. He quickly sees that Hana won’t let it go easy. “An’ greedy, too. Hold yer horses, kiddo. Let funny, handsome Osamu burp you so you can keep eatin’.” 

Once Hana’s fed and happy, Osamu figures he might as well move the stacks of diapers into the changing area and stack up the mail on Keiji’s desk, organizing it as best he can into actual junk and possibly important while ignoring the thought that he’s committing some kind of crime. He sings as he goes, something about a toad and an octopus on a log on a lump in the sea, some nonsense to some tune he remembers hearing on television, and when he’s tidied up as much as he can, he sits Hana down in the nest and watches, amused by how tiny she is in the big world around her, but also curious how boring it must be, to sit in day in and day out staring at a barely human who can only stare back. Still, it’s fun to pass objects into her tiny hands, to watch her suck and grab and assess. And he gets to confirm his suspicion that the nest is pitifully bare, even if such observation runs against all the etiquette his granny hammered into him about nests and privacy and personal space.

Before long, Hana starts to look worn out, which is crazy considering she just woke up, what? An—oh. Two hours ago. Osamu doesn’t know the first thing about swaddling, though, so he lays her on his chest and props her up with one arm, scrolling through his phone with the other. At least now he can solve the swaddling thing, or maybe figure out how to rig one of those nifty chest carriers. That’s more important than the thousand and one messages he has from Atsumu, he decides.

Ambitions aside, Osamu is deep into a juicy game of sudoku when the apartment’s quiet is broken by a loud bang. Osamu bristles—not out of fear, but defensiveness. He holds Hana tighter to his chest and feels rather than hears the start of a wail as he raises up. Only when a bright yell rings out—“Keiji! The campsite got rained out!” followed by, “Wow! You cleaned! I promised I’d do that, I did!”—does Osamu process that he’s sitting in his briefs in an apartment that’s not his, with a baby and an oma who’re the same. His mind offers no helpful thoughts. Just a single, solitary: _Fuck_.

**Author's Note:**

> It should be clear, but an oma is the omega parent and an ama is the alpha parent in my little world. Grandparents are just "granny." "Gender" (i.e., pronouns) is determined by the individual, though parents tend to use one of their own choice for the first few years of life.
> 
> My baby knowledge before this fic: Nonexistent  
> My baby knowledge after this fic: Exactly equivalent to Osamu’s
> 
> Nothing like shoving all your worst fears into one fic and having to write about them. God, I never want to have a kid. Never. Ever. No thank you. Not in a million years. But Osamu with a kid? I will happily take more and happily make my own food. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!


End file.
